Stensgård.
Then just run me down a little to Madam Rundholmen; indulge in an innuendo or two at my expense. You are so good at that sort of thing.
Heire.
What the deuce is the meaning of this?
Stensgård.
I have my reasons. It’s a joke, you know—a wager with—with some one you have a grudge against.
Heire.
Aha, I understand. I say no more!
Stensgård.
Don’t go too far, you know. Just place me in a more or less equivocal light—make her a little suspicious of me, for the moment.